


when the future starts so slow

by Collinder



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Care, Gen, Season/Series 01, Suicidal Tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Collinder/pseuds/Collinder
Summary: Set somewhere between S1E13 Root Cause and S1E16 Risk. An attempt at filling in what causes John's change of attitude towards Harold. (From "I'm not sure I'm in favor of our troubling arrangement" to "Someone new.")
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	when the future starts so slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nourann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nourann/gifts).



> I was a bit bewildered by the change of attitude described above, and also, as nourann (to whom I presumptuously gift this fic) points out in their work, suicidal tendencies don't just go away because one gets a job.
> 
> Title is from the song Future Starts Slow by The Kills, which is used in S2E16 Relevance:
> 
> And after all, God can keep my soul  
> England, have my bones  
> But don't ever give me up  
> I could never get back up  
> When the future starts so slow

Every time he goes out to the field, he thinks, _maybe today is the day_.

It makes him relaxed, carefree. It makes him focused. It makes things simple.

Today, he might trade his life for a stranger’s, and it would be okay. And if the day comes to an end with him still breathing, that’s okay too. There will always be another day.

It’s simple — all he needs to do is too give, and give, and give. It’s simple, all his attention narrowed down to one random person in the world, their life, their happiness and miseries. It shifts the focus off his life, and sometimes, if he is lucky, he becomes so involved in someone else’s story that he can forget all about himself for a while.

When he is in action, reflexes direct him to move with caution, with speed, with strength, as the situations demand. When a case is over, though, the familiar tiredness weighs down on him. It’s always the thought that he might prevent a loss the next day — maybe the loss of an innocent person, even a good person, a person who loves and who is loved — that propels him to clean up the mess: a crime scene, some traces, his wounds, his _thoughts_.

But some days, when the case is particularly meaningless, when the weights in his bones are just slightly heavier than usual, it requires just slightly more effort to get back up to his feet. He just needs a little stimulus.

Usually a crisp “Mr. Reese, what’s our status?” would do it.

Today is one of those days. It has been a week, three consecutive numbers that might just deserve what was coming at them. They prevented three deaths, but preserved no innocence, no happiness, since there was none to begin with. He has some cuts and bruises. He supposes he should feel annoyed that he got them on these people’s behalf, but he finds he’s okay with that.

A cut might be a slight understatement for the wound currently across his abdomen. It could be called a gash, but not a serious one, not very alarming. It’s long, somewhat deep, and bleeding, but not bleeding furiously. He could get up, go back to the motel, patch himself up, and be as good as new tomorrow.

But the thing is, he doesn’t _want_ to get up. Lying on the floor of a derelict warehouse, with members of a gang scattered around him, unconscious or groaning, he feels exhausted. It feels right to be lying here, so _right_ that he doesn’t want to move even a finger. He is aware of blood slowly seeping through his clothes, so he makes himself lift his hand and places it half-heartedly on top of his stomach.

 _Just a little while_ , he thinks. _Just until Finch checks in_.

Then he remembers Finch fretting a bit and saying something about a hardware trip when giving him this location. He had assured Finch that this would be easy and he could wrap this up by himself, and told him to go. Because why not? Though he doesn’t like being in the dark, whatever _thing_ Finch is into is clearly important to him, and he doesn’t like people worrying. And it did turn out easy, and he did wrap this up. And maybe he deserves a little rest here. He closes his eyes.

————————

When he opens them again, he perceives harsh white lights, and smells the distinct smell that means _hospital_. He groans inwardly.

As expected, he moves his head to the side and sees Finch sitting on a chair by the bed, back straight, lips thin, a deep furrow on his brows, eyes distant, but snapping to him instantly at the sound of him moving. The frown doesn’t fade a bit. He groans inwardly again. Did he mention he doesn’t like people worrying? Well, he also dislikes _troubling_ them. Making him appear on a hospital bed was no doubt a lot of trouble, and he grimaces at that. He especially dislikes troubling people when it’s not _necessary_. And it was not necessary. He really should get his shit together.

Finch must misreads his expression for unease, because,

“Mr. Reese. The situation has been dealt with. And your bodyguard identity allows us the luxury of a hospital — I don’t think the CIA would still be after hospitals here at this point, let alone a knife wound — and I swept this room for insecurities.”

He couldn’t help but wince a little at the “let alone” part, and Finch’s frown gets deeper at that.

“Though, you were mostly threatened by blood lost, and now that we got that dealt with, the rest of the recovery process is best conducted securely elsewhere.”

He doesn’t mind too much. Motel or hospital feels about same to him. The anonymity there is surely more desirable. The isolation that comes with it though, not so much. He is startled that the concept _isolation_ even crosses his mind. He quickly nods at Finch.

They slips out of the hospital room and into a waiting town car. He doesn’t bother to give Finch his address — he must know, but he is surprised that they end up one block away from the library.

He waits until they have climbed the stairs (he still feels a little weak doing that) and Finch is explaining to him that he has a crash room here, with a decent bed (not that he hasn’t explored every room in here) to ask, “Why am I here, Finch? We’ve got another number?”

Finch stops mid-sentence and looks at him a bit strangely. “No,” he draws out, “you should get some rest even if we do. I thought you might like a familiar and secure environment — correct me if I’m wrong, of course, and we can get you back to your place.”

Finch has an expression of walking on eggshells, and it irks him a bit. He wants to ask _how is my place not secure_ but can’t quite find the energy. Besides, he does find the library more secure, and the thought of staying here is more appealing than going back to his motel. So he doesn’t say anything. He drinks whatever strange-tasting liquid Finch hands him, and goes to lie on the bed when Finch suggests. He must have lost some blood, because he feels tired — not the usual tiredness, but a fatigue that is physical — and he falls asleep soon after.

———————

When he wakes and ventures outside the crash room, the library is immersed in darkness. He hears the clicking sound of a keyboard, and knows Finch is still here. He is inexplicably reassured. He walks towards the sound, not bothering to hide the shuffle in his steps. The physical fatigue lifts a bit, but he is still tired, and it makes him not wanting to bother with a lot of things —

“Mr. Reese, how are you feeling?”

— like talking in sentences — “Better.”

He knows being terse is uncharacteristic, and being uncharacteristic means attention and exposure, but, as said, he doesn’t want to bother. And he really doesn’t have the heart to play flippant now. Uh. _This_ despondency _has been going on way too long_ , his inner Finch voice reprimands with a touch of sarcasm. This is pathetic even for him. Maybe he needs some action.

“Do we have a new number yet?” He asks even though the glass board is clear.

Finch fixes his glare on him, “Perhaps before asking that, you should explain to me what happened in the warehouse.”

“The crime scene should have been a pretty good documentation of what happened.”

Finch plainly ignores his attempt at deflection. “It is unfortunate that, given this line of work, there is always the risk of you getting injured. However, I trust your ability to assess a situation. It’s not often that you end up unconscious and _in shock_ , when you had told me it would be _easy_. So would you inform me on what _happened_?”

Yeah, it’s not often. _Just the one time I didn’t check up on you_ , his inner Finch voice supplies. He lowers his head in something like shame and feels somehow like a child who misbehaved.

He thinks about lying — saying that someone landed a hit on his head and he was unconscious when he bled out — but the doctor surely had examined his head and Finch surely had inquired about it. Besides, he doesn’t want to actually behave like a child. So he says with his head still down,

“It _was_ easy. I was just. Um. Tired. And wanted to rest for a bit.”

He braces himself for a disapproval with just enough sarcasm to hurt. When none came after a long silence, he looks up.

And ugh. He doesn’t like what he sees there. Finch has the thoughtful expression when he encounters something challenging and he is _determined_ to solve it. He suddenly feels naked in his shirt.

Finch eventually breaks the silence.

“When I hired you, John, I did not intend this job to become your more efficient method.

Though he has been preparing himself, he still startles a bit.

“I hoped to give you a purpose to live for, not to die for. But it appears that my assessment of the situation was erroneous.

He is starting to feel the tiniest bit of panic. He half expects Finch to declare him unfit for the job after all.

“I apologize.

Well that is unexpected, and unasked for, too. He tilts his head and gives a tiny shake, to show his confusion.

“By now I should really know better than presuming to predict how the human brain works. I should have taken more care.”

He feels like he is staring at Finch like a goldfish, but Finch doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t feel like asking. He senses that this conversation is coming to an end, and is mustering the strength to get moving, when Finch speaks again,

“Would you like to join me for dinner, Mr. Reese? There’s a diner a few blocks away. I think a bit of walking now should do you good.”

Seems like today is surprise day. When they eat together, it’s usually take-out in the middle of a case. They have never sat down at a diner to eat together — Finch leaving immediately after he arrives at the booth doesn’t count.

But Finch is already shrugging on his coat, and he doesn’t see any reason to object, so he grabs his coat and follows.

———————

He didn’t expect Finch to actually order for him after inquiring if he feels like anything in particular and getting a negative answer.

“Making decisions consumes will-power and mental strength, and so many of the decisions required of us in modern daily life is unnecessary.” Finch says and it sounds like an explanation somewhat.

He wants to snort, _are you saying I’m low on mental strength_? But then he supposes he might actually be, now, if the overwhelming tiredness is any clue. So he keeps his mouth shut.

“Incidentally, we should do a better job at keeping your blood sugar level stable. As you know, it influences emotional stability and decision-making.”

He does bristle at that — being slashed once and bleeding a bit doesn’t mean he needs to be treated as a _patient_.

Before he can make his sentiment known, however, Finch cuts in --

“John, it’s okay to be human.

Now that’s an interesting choice of word. When does being human means suicidal? — Because who are they kidding? Might as well say the word.

“As in, it’s okay to hurt. And it’s okay to find existence painful. Especially when one is trying hard to do good, as you are.

He doesn’t know what to make of that, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“And it’s okay to seek help — or at least, allow help. I would say it’s not weakness, but I sense that you will disagree. So let’s just say it’s okay to be weak, too. Humans _are_ , sometimes, even incredibly strong ones.”

The half of his brain that is processing this conversation detachedly remarks to him that Finch sounds like a patronizing alien, and he wants to laugh at that. The other half somehow makes a lump appear in his throat, and he has to focus on chewing and swallowing his food, so he doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t laugh.

————————

Finch finally leaves him to himself after dinner, so he gets back to his motel and goes straight to bed. He wakes up the next morning after a solid sleep, feeling his brain and this world crispy again, and already finding his behavior yesterday ridiculous.

He waits for the familiar shame to sink in, the scalding reproachful voice, but it's not too bad this time. He hears Finch saying _it’s okay_.

He gets ready for the day, and thinks, _next time, next time I won’t mess this up again._

But the next time never comes. Whatever thing Finch is into, it goes on for a while. But he never goes away on an active case again. Finch is _always_ there, checking in with him, and not just with a case.

He supposes he should find it annoying, Finch keeping an eye on everything — his diet, his rest, his clothes, his lodgings. But he finds that he doesn’t mind.

His inner Finch voice changes too. It loses the sharp and sarcastic edge, and turns fussy, which he finds surprisingly acceptable. He needs those reminder with details, in or out of the field.

And some day, he will acknowledge, albeit indirectly to Joan, what Finch has been doing — taking care of him — and in doing so also acknowledge that he accepts it, and that he will want to say _thank you_ for it.

And some day, when he asks, “You there, Finch?” He will get an acknowledgement too —

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
